It's the Thought that Counts
by everlarktoast
Summary: When Peeta gets sick, Katniss has to care of him. Just a short, fluffy, post-mj everlark drabble. rated T just to be safe.


I open my eyes, and it's around seven a.m. Feeling Peeta's heavy breathing and tight grip on my waist from behind, I slowly turn around and face him.

As soon as I look at him, a wave of fear rushes through me. His face is a nearly white and wet with sweat while he stares down at me with half-open, bloodshot eyes.

"Peeta?"

I prop myself up on one elbow next to him.

"Are you ok?"

Placing my palm on his forehead, it's obvious that he's burning up. I sit on my knees, placing the back of my hand on his cheek.

"You're burning up," I sigh. He leans into my touch, placing his clammy hand on my bony wrist.

"I'll be right back." I say, kissing his cheek. I walk into the bathroom and open up the medicine cabinet, pulling out a thermometer. When I'm making my way back into our room, I notice that Peeta has his back propped up against the headboard, eyes closed with his head lightly resting against it.

"Hey," I say softly, sitting on the side of our bed. He lifts his head and looks at me while taking my hand.

"Hi." His voice sounds croaky and tired when he tries to sound chipper and awake. He looks at my other hand and as soon as he sees the thermometer, he groans.

"Do I have to?" He asks.

"Say ah," I answer, holding up the thermometer.

He smiles at me and opens his mouth, saying "ah." We hold hands and I run my fingers through his hair soothingly, trying to get him to relax as I take his temperature. Peeta and I don't usually get sick, but it's winter time, and he_ insists_ on keeping the windows open at night. My immune system is hard to break through, due to my years of sleeping in cold rooms and hunting in the winter with less than enough protection from the cold as a child. Peeta, however, had the ovens of his bakery to keep his family warm, and rarely had any need to spend an extended period of time outdoors in the cold. Plus, during his torture in the Capitol, his immune system was broken into pieces, and when he first returned he got sick a lot. He despises being sick, as it prevents him from going to the bakery (or _I_ prevent him from going to the bakery when he's sick so he doesn't get worse) and he's confined to the house. When he gets sick, he jokes about me constantly pampering him, asking him what's wrong and my feeling the need to be around him when he's ill. But he knows that the only person, who hates it when Peeta gets sick more than Peeta, is me. And he feels the exact same way about me.

"Only twenty seconds left." I say after glancing at the clock to see how much time is left. He nods, trying his best to smile with the thermometer in his mouth. Laughing slightly at his failed attempt at a goofy (yet oh so charming) smile, I pull the thermometer out of his mouth. As soon as I pull it out, I read the number.

I feel the color drain from my face when I see the number before me. Sure enough, the thermometer reads that he has a one hundred and three degree temperature.

"Am I sick?" He asks like a child.

I nod and he leans his head back against his pillow and groans, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Climbing in next to him on the bed, I lean my back against the headboard, brushing his hair off his eyes. Groaning, he moves his head onto my lap, shifting his body so his back is against my legs. Closing his eyes, he exhales heavily. I place one hand on his hot cheek, and the other brushes damp hair from his forehead. He opens his eyes, reaching his hand up to my cheek.

"I feel like shit." He says, and I smile sympathetically at him.

"What hurts?"

"I have a headache and my stomach isn't feeling so hot either." We sit together in a moment of silence before I speak up.

"Tell you what," I begin.

"You go take a shower, and I'll get you some medicine and tea and hot soup. Then, we can go watch television and lay around the rest of the day. Sound good?"

He sits up and looks at me. "That sounds fantastic."

Leaning over to kiss him, I feel his hand move to my shoulder to stop me.

"I don't want you to get sick." He says regrettably. I back away and sigh.

"But," he holds my face in his hands. "If I wasn't sick I would definitely kiss you right now."

I groan and fall back onto the bed as he pats my thigh and stands to go shower.

"Plus," he winks at me and smirks, despite his illness. "It's the thought that counts."


End file.
